


the hunt

by klefaeries



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Smut, Spiderbyte, Supernatural Elements, gothic wlw smut in my fanfiction??? its more likely than you think, huntress!sombra, they love each other so much y'all im so gay, this is soft while still being sexy i promise, vampire!Widowmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klefaeries/pseuds/klefaeries
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to remember whether she is the huntress or the hunted. Sometimes it's easy to remember that she's a little bit of both.





	the hunt

**Author's Note:**

> i've had multiple versions of this in my drafts for WEEKS because i couldn't decide how i wanted it to play out...spiderbyte is my guilty pleasure. vamp!widow is my guilty pleasure. slightly sub sombra is my guilty pleasure. this was shamelessly entertaining to write. 
> 
> i have too many overwatch au's lmao. sorry this one wasn't very detailed/explained! was trying for a more subtle gothic approach, and making it more about passion rather than straight up horny smut :')

It is storming when she arrives at Chateau Guillard.

It suits the occasion. The moon and stars are obscured by thick black clouds and thunder rumbles ferociously above, white streaks of lightning flashing across the sky. The wind howls and the rain comes down in heavy sheets, soaking her to the bone despite the thick cloak wrapped around her lithe form.

The chateau itself is rather more imposing than the blustering winds and booming thunder. Spires rise high into the night sky and part of the white stone walls crumble into the sea below; in the storm, the sea crashes against the cliff with a savage roar. It is a dead thing. A skeleton of grandeur and days long since gone. 

An orchard once greeted visitors. She can see it in her mind, clear as day; rich green canopies and branches heavy with fruits imported from all over. If she closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, she swears she can even smell the intoxicating aroma of blossoms wafting through the air. 

But now the trees are withered and decaying, their bare branches like desperate fingers that sway in the wind. All she can smell is the rain and the seaspray and the damp scent of rotting wood. She treads through the arboreal graveyard, boots squelching in mud, as the heavy wooden doors to the chateau get closer and closer.

They are unlocked. All she needs to do is push on the handles, and the once magnificently carved doors swing open with a slow, mournful creak.

Sombra steps into the darkness of Chateau Guillard, a wolf slipping into the lion’s den.

The foyer, even deteriorating as badly as it is, is still an impressive show of wealth. A massive chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, no doubt solid gold underneath the dust and cobwebs. Trophies from various hunts adorn the walls; heads of elk and bear, and pelts of all manner of vicious beasts. They are lifeless and sag with neglect, and smell musty. The carpet beneath her feet, no longer plush and thick, is worn to bare threads and she can barely tell what the grandiose pattern stitched with velvet and silk once was. The rain drips from her cloak as she saunters across the carpet, leaving small puddles in her wake, and comes to a halt at the marble stairway that disappears into the shadows of the floor above.

The air stills as she approaches. Her skin tingles. Before her, an orb appears in thin air, bobbing lazily like a cloud on a summer’s day. Its white in color, no bigger than an apple, and gives off a warmth not unlike the hearth of a fireplace. Sombra reaches out a hand, stretching gloves fingers towards the spectral thing, and it dodges her grasp as playfully as a kitten. The orb drifts towards the stairs and pauses, seeming to beckon to her with subtle flashes of its phantasmal light.

The scent of roses wafts through the air, teasing her senses; it is absolutely divine in this dismal place.

She sighs. Her voice is as loud as a gunshot in the chilling silence of the foyer, even with the storm raging on outside its stone walls.

“Let the hunt begin.”

Lightning flashes. Portraits lining the walls seem to stare at her with unseeing eyes, the colors faded and dull. All of them are of beautiful people ―dark-eyed men in suits worth more than everything Sombra has ever owned and women with porcelain skin and red lips whose demure smiles tell more secrets than their words ever could. Vases filled with dead flowers, their petals so dry that one touch would turn them to dust, are her escorts as she takes one step onto the stairs. 

Thunder booms. It hums into her bones, rumbling through the chateau's foundation. Just for a moment, Sombra entertains the image of the mansion crumbling down the side of the cliff and into the sea, never to be seen again.

But just for a moment.

For now, she has work to do.

Sombra follows the orb. It keeps three paces ahead of her at all times, and she strides behind it with her head held high.The halls are long and endless. She hears whispers behind closed doors, laughter that echoes amongst the thunder and wind. Mocking her, almost, for willingly entering a place as accursed as this.

They don’t matter. They never do. It’s the door at the end of the hall that contains what she’s come for. When she approaches it at last, the orb gives a single shudder before slipping through the chipped paint of the wood, disappearing beyond the boundary.

_ “Come.” _

The word is not so much as said aloud as it is placed in Sombra’s mind. It slithers in like a serpent, all velvet and silk, soft and wonderful and enchanting. The door swings open. Sombra steps in.

The chambers are in far better condition than the rest of the chateau. The subtle aroma of roses linger in the air. A fire crackles welcomingly in the hearth set into the wall, setting the room aglow with a warm luminescence. The curtains are drawn, and are a rich purple, so dark they are almost black. The rugs, featuring designs and patterns from all over the world, are pristine with no trace of tears whatsoever. The paintings that hang from the walls are all of scenes that seem to brim with magic and life―a garden of blooming wildflowers born in every color imaginable, a pond teeming with tiny fish and swollen frogs, a woman in a sheer white gown that clings to her skin and leaves little to the imagination as she gazes up at a full moon. Her golden eyes are filled with something unreadable.

The woman from the painting reclines in a settee in front of the fireplace, a champagne glass filled with something dark and red in her hand. Her luscious black hair spills down her shoulders and her pale skin is almost as white as the moon itself in the light of the sleepy flames. She wears a simple satin robe, red as blood, that hangs from her slender frame in crimson waves.

She smiles as Sombra enters the room. Her eyes, yellow like a cat’s, glint dangerously.

“Welcome,  _ mon  _ _ chère _ . It seems your hunt is at an end, yes?”   
  
“It would seem so,” Sombra answers slowly, reaching into the confines of her cloak and pulling out a small hand-held crossbow. It’s already loaded with a bolt; crafted of the finest cedar wood, and blessed by a bishop. She raises it with a steady hand, aiming it directly at the woman’s heart.

The woman tips back her head and laughs.  _ Dios,  _ how Sombra loves that sound. It’s richer than the finest wine.

“Bang.”

Sombra pushes the trigger. Nothing happens. The woman’s smile deepens into a sensual smirk and she sets the glass down on the end table, and suddenly she is no longer draped across the settee.

She is standing right behind Sombra, her arms wrapped around her waist and her lips at her ear. Her fingers dig into the openings of the cloak, wriggling past the thick material with an air of impatience.

“Take this silly thing off, darling. I’ve missed you terribly, and you’re getting the carpet all wet.”

“ _ Amélie, _ ” Sombra breathes, the timbre of the other woman’s voice sending shivers down her spine, and it’s not because of how thoroughly soaked from the rain she is. 

The cloak is tossed to the floor. Amélie’s lips slide down Sombra’s throat now that it is bare, her hands moving from her waist to her shoulders. Her breath is cool as it fans against her skin, something sharp barely pricking the sensitive flesh. “I don’t know how I manage to do it,” she purrs as her nails bite into Sombra’s shoulders. “Waiting for you all alone in this empty place...it drives a woman mad, you know.”

And then she bites down.

Sombra can’t help but elicit a low moan as the vampire’s fangs sink into her throat. The pain is quick and sharp, lasting only a moment, before her senses dissolve into nothing but pure pleasure. Like a fire chugging lazily along in her veins, spreading throughout her entire body and sending delicious tingles to her core. Amélie’s tongue rasps against the puncture wound as she sucks deep and long, giving a moan of her own. Sombra presses her body flush against Amélie’s, her hands seeking purchase of the thin silk robe, gripping it tightly as Amélie feasts from behind, almost growling in her throat like a starved animal.

The bite lasts forever. 

The bite lasts only for a moment.

Sombra can never truly tell which is which, to be quite honest.

When Amélie pulls away, giving the two small holes one last lick, she presses her lips to the back of Sombra’s neck. Her lips are cool to the touch. “ _ Délicieuse,”  _ she praises, and Sombra laughs breathlessly, her head swimming.

“ _ Mierda _ . I’ve forgotten how...intense that can be,” she confesses, spinning around slowly so as to avoid tripping over her own feet and stumbling to the floor. Her brown eyes meet  Amélie’s golden ones.  “I have missed you,  _ mi corazón _ . I’m sorry the hunt took so long. Bastard was a shapeshifter. It was difficult to track him down.”

“Hush. All is forgiven.”  Amélie places a delicate finger to Sombra’s lips. “You are here now, and that is what matters.”

Without another word, she pulls her in and kisses her.

Kissing Amélie is like kissing the moon. The iron taste of Sombra’s own blood still lingers on her tongue, but it’s a flavor she’s gotten used to over the years of being a vampire’s paramore. But everything else about kissing her is ephemeral; how soft yet unyielding her mouth is, how her tongue dances in an elegant waltz, how her hands know where to stroke…

Sombra will never tire of it. 

“You are eager,” Amélie teases against her lips when Sombra’s hands begin to snake their way into her robe, pushing past the thin fabric and finger the supple flesh of her breasts. She nips at Sombra’s lower lip with her fangs, barely enough to draw blood, and lets out a lyrical sigh when Sombra’s thumb and forefinger pinches a nipple. “I suppose I am too. It’s been too long.”

“Six months,” Sombra supplies as she breaks away from the kiss, using her free hand to slide the robe from Amélie’s shoulders. Her body, pale and glowing like a goddess, is just as beautiful as she remembers. Her eyes trail down to the neatly trimmed black curls between her thighs: the holiest place she had ever had the honor of worshipping. Her breasts fit perfectly in the palm of her hands; she cups them, caressing them lovingly, and brings her head down. Amélie sighs, dreamlike, when Sombra’s mouth encapsulates a nipple and the mounds of flesh surrounding it, rolling her tongue along the soft skin and suckling like a newborn babe. She tastes like roses—exquisitely faint and sweet.

Amélie’s hands entangle themselves in her chestnut locks. She pulls her towards the settee and Sombra willingly follows, still sucking and kissing her breast. The two fall upon one another gracefully, vampire beneath human, and when Sombra removes her mouth and meets Amélie’s eyes, they burn with pure desire.

“Let me touch you.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. One Sombra is more than happy to obey.

Amélie snaps a finger.  The rest of her clothes seem to melt away, spirited away by magic, and she can’t help but shiver as her bare skin is revealed. “Lovely,”  Amélie murmurs as she runs her hands up and down Sombra’s sides, fingers ghosting along the skin of her waist and stopping to cup her full breasts, giving them an experimental squeeze. Sombra hums in appreciation, twitching when she rolls both nipples between her fingers and prods at them with expert technique. 

Another rush of tingling desire spreads down to her core. She feels warmth, wet and ready, begin to build up at the juncture between her legs. Impatiently, she presses into one lithe thigh, rubbing and grinding her cunt against Amélie’s leg.

Amélie laughs, full and throaty, and clucks her tongue as her hands roam from her breasts to her waist. Sombra whines in the back of her throat, unbidden, when a hand dances and perfectly manicured fingers thread themselves through the mass of thick curls. “Let me take care of you tonight,  _ mon  _ _ chère, _ ” she whispers maddeningly as a finger just brushes the sensitive nub of her clitoris, a ghostlike touch that still makes her cry out softly.

“Please…”

Sombra’s voice is needy as the whine leaves her lips. Amélie’s thumb splays against her clit while two fingers slither down to her folds, darting along the damp entrance. She rubs slow, methodical circles against the bundle of nerves, fingers sinking into her cunt at the same time, and Sombra gasps loudly with six months of pent-up frustration at the sensation of her aching core finally being filled by her beloved.

“Oh,  _ mi corazón _ , right there…!”

Amélie knows all her spots and crevices. She pinches and strokes, scissoring in and out, and a fire roils deep within Sombra’s belly. Knots untie themselves. Tension melts. Everything pours down to her cunt, slick and shivering and hungry, as she rocks her hips against the vampire’s talented fingers. Moans fall from her lips, lewd and obscene. Her toes tingle warmly, back arching like a cat in heat, and her head falls between Amélie’s shoulder and neck. “More,” she pants out wantonly, voice thick and hoarse as she grinds into Amélie’s touch. “More…!”

Amélie hisses. Once, it was a terrifying sound, like a beast of legend coming in for the kill. Now it simply adds to Sombra’s lust and she clings to Amélie as the vampire lunges her mouth forward, finding the other side of her neck and biting down roughly. Her fangs sink into the sensitive skin of her throat at the same time her thumb picks up speed on her clit, rubbing hard and fast.

Sombra nearly shrieks as her body begins to come apart. Amélie sucks and licks, strokes and squeezes, and the sheer pleasure coiling through her system is impossible not to give in to. Her fingers thrust in and out, squelching salaciously, and Sombra feels as if she is floating in a palace made of clouds. Everything is numb, and yet so profound at the same time. There’s a storm raging inside her, more wicked than the one swirling outside, bursting deep within her cunt and making her gasp breathlessly.

It’s Amélie’s words that finally make her fall apart.

“Cum for me,” she commands in between bites, voice blissfully divine, and Sombra is but a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf.

With a whimpering moan, her body shudders and her cunt clamps down on Amélie’s fingers. She rides the orgasm in tune to the vampire’s murmurs of sweet nothings in her ear, hips jerking and arms gripping Amélie’s shoulders as if she were holding on for dear life.

She nearly collapses on top of her beloved. Amélie cradles her in her slender yet inhumanely strong arms, licking the last drops of blood from her ravaged neck and peppering sweet kisses along her cheeks. Her head rests between the sanctuary of her breasts, panting and whining forlornly when the fingers slide out of her with a resounding  _ pop.  _ Amélie brings her sticky fingers up to her mouth and wraps her pink tongue around them, licking the arousal from them as if cleaning up juice from a messy fruit. She nibbles the lobe of her ear when she’s done, a satisfied smile dancing in her voice.

“Welcome home, Olivia.” 

Only Amélie knows her true name. Only Amélie can touch her like so, and make her come undone with a single word. Only Amélie knows why she wanders the world in search of creatures of the night who take pleasure in slaughtering the innocent. Only Amélie can drink from her freely, and ask nothing in return save for her love.

Only Amélie. 

Sombra lifts her head and meets her eyes. They glow from within, magical swirling in their golden seas as Amélie grins and licks her lips. A hand grasps Sombra’s, fingers interlocking, and drags it down until it comes to a rest at the forest of damp curls between Amélie’s legs.

An orb appears above their heads. Then another. And another. Mischief sparkles in Amélie’s sultry smile, and she bares her fangs. “I do hope your stamina is what I remember it to be, darling.” The hand clutching Sombra’s grows hot, and the smell of roses becomes so sweet it’s almost as if she’s stumbled into a garden of them.

Outside the crumbling chateau walls, thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. The wind howls. Amélie purrs as the fire in the hearth inexplicably burns out.

“The night has just begun.”


End file.
